


cor cordium

by RememberThePetrichor



Category: One Piece
Genre: Coming of Age, Corazon Week 2018, F/M, Family Issues, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Rosi and the Marines
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-06-09 05:02:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15259983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RememberThePetrichor/pseuds/RememberThePetrichor
Summary: Latin for "Heart of Hearts." While his brother grows down, Rosinante grows up.  [Pieces inspired by prompts for Corazon Week 2018]





	1. Fury/Pity

**Author's Note:**

> Decided to finish off Corazon Week with the first two prompts I missed. They're technically last year's now, but here's **Week 1: Fury/Pity**. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy and again, this chapter can be viewed either as canon-verse or the _astra inclinant_ AU.

* * *

_A drunkard wandered into town in the last year. His coat a tarp of holes, his peppered hair a wiry nest. Beneath a long filthy red scarf, he hid his papery skin, thin and yellowed with jaundice._

_He was always hacking, leaving globs of phlegm behind as he swayed through the alleys. Puke and vodka comprised his stench and cemented the memory of him in Rosinante for years to come. That smell._

_Those fists._

_He seemed to take particular amusement in finding and beating them. Rosinante remembered sitting petrified at those unsteady footfalls, remembered his brother reacting instantly and dragging him by the arm, stuffing him into some narrow crevice behind a barrel or dumpster. There was never enough room, the two of them flattened against each other, knees braced against ribs. Doffy's burning hand covered his mouth, nails bruising into flesh._

_"Stay still," his brother hissed in the dark, "Stay still."_

* * *

He goes to Loguetown in the summer, one month shy of his sixteenth birthday. Vice Admiral Garp has gathered all the new cadets for this venture--a "field trip" he says. A covert one Sengoku doesn't need to know about. Rosinante isn't sure what exactly a "covert field trip" is suppose to be, but packs his bag dutifully and hustles out with his peers at the crack of dawn.

Captain Bellemere has somehow dragged herself out of bed. She slaps his back on the way to the skiff's boarding ramp and says she'll be expecting details later.

"You're going to Loguetown, cadet. Haven't you heard the rumors?"

She shakes her head in tragedy when he stares at her. Rosinante supposes he hasn't been paying much attention to the rest of the world lately. Or maybe he never really had, so fixated was he on the sole region that meant anything to him. 

Bellemere sighs, giving him a resigned smile. "I guess it's just as well, isn't it? You'll find out soon."

* * *

_Sometimes, he overlooked them._

_Sometimes, he didn't._

_Rosinante sat scrunched on their dirty uneven stool, trying not to squirm, choking down whimpers of pain. He'd been struck with a bottle this time and glass had managed to wedge under his lower back, five and a half inches from his spine. His knuckles were white as they gripped the stool's rim._

_Doffy tore out the shard, a wet fragment pinched between forefinger and thumb. He poured a stolen pint of whiskey over the wound to clean out the grit and it hurt so terribly Rosinante thought he could die._

_"Shh," Doffy murmured, when he'd finished wrapping it, and tugged Rosinante's shirt down, "You're alright." He had bruises on his face which were purpling, and blood flaking away from the corner of his mouth and tired lines and suddenly Rosinante was crying so hard he couldn't breathe. Doffy shifted, maybe to silence him before the mob caught the noise._

_"Rosi..."_

_He grabbed his brother first, clutching him. Voice about to break like a twig._

_"Is it wrong that we're here, Doffy?" he said, "Would it have been better, if we'd never existed at all?"_

_His brother stared at him. And stared at him. Rosinante hiccuped, his chest jolting. He was too exhausted to think about his words or whether he meant them or not. He couldn't even hold up his gaze, forehead sinking against his brother's stomach. He tried to calm his sobs. Doffy didn't push him away. He didn't move in general._

_It was forever later, before a hand lifted him by the chin, a sleeve mopping his face of tears. The touch was gentle and the glasses so vacant and dark, Rosinante did not realize Doffy was angry until he heard fury crackling and slithering through his voice._

_"Don't say that again, Rosi," he whispered, "Not ever."_

* * *

Loguetown is well-nested with pirates and thieves. There's a base present, but it doesn't seem to be contributing much deterrence-wise. The captain in charge is...jumpy. He has black rings beneath his eyes and a balding spot. He stammers and nearly collapses when Garp roars a greeting and claps him on the shoulder. Enzo is the name, as Rosinante manages to gather amongst the shouting.

"Are you here with more reinforcements, sir?" Enzo asks, practically gripping the lapels of Garp's coat, eyeing their band with unnerving, blazingly hopeful eyes.

Garp laughs, his giant hands on his waist. "What, them? Of course not! They're the new chicks from last spring. You don't need reinforcements, my good man. Don't sell yerself short!"

Captain Enzo's face goes so white Rosinante fears he's on the edge of fainting. "S-Sir," he rasps, "We don't have enough--this isn't--he's in _a holding cell--_ "

"Ah, yer thinkin' he's gonna get loose," Garp gives a sage nod. "Don't be scared, lad. His time's come. He won't be goin' anywhere now." 

Enzo doesn't look reassured and a faint curiosity pulses through Rosinante. He's sure there are notorious pirates all over Loguetown, but certainly no one so unusual that a fully-stocked marine base wouldn't be able to handle. 

He waffles a second too long though about asking, and by then Garp is announcing that he'll actually have to borrow a few men for a trip to Dawn Island. 

"Dadan's been spotted in Goa, y'know. The tough old bitch just won't quit. Gotta try and catch her by surprise this time."

"What?" Enzo half-squeaks, "Y-You--b-but--what about the prisoner?"

"It'll just be a day," Garp says, and jabs a flippant thumb behind him, "Besides, that's why I brought you the baby marines here. Even Sengoku's own boy, look!"

Rosinante jolts when Garp suddenly snatches him, throwing an arm around his shoulders and into a near headlock. "You take good care of him, alright? 'Else that codger's gonna have your head."

"I can take care of myself, sir," Rosinante wheezes out at Enzo, "I don't need special treatment." 

"Ha! The right spirit in this one!" Garp laughs uproariously, before releasing him and sauntering for the door. He's almost at the exit, before turning around with a fraction more sobriety than before. 

"You'll be fine. It's over. Really this time. Hard to believe, but true."

Enzo cradles his head. "We won't stand a chance if he gets loose. Not that monster..." Garp flaps his hand, blithely still without concern. He looks at Rosinante actually, his wrinkled eyes strangely piercing. There's a measure of study and expectation in them that has Rosinante blinking back in puzzlement. 

"Give him some company," Garp says, "won't you, kiddo?"

Rosinante glances at Captain Enzo, has no idea if the man's who Garp is referring to or really what he's talking about at all. 

But he nods anyway of course. "Yes, sir."

* * *

_"He was a lord."_

_Rosinante rolled over, rubbing his eyes. His brother was already out of bed, sitting on the floor a few feet from the ajar door. His legs were crossed, posture hunched. Dawn hadn't yet reached the sky. A scraping sound crept through the room. Scrik. Scrik. Rosinante stared at his back._

_"Who?"_

_"That drunk. He owned land in some place called the Bourgeois Kingdom. Had only a daughter. Liked to box in his free time."_

_"What? How do you know that?"_

_Doffy didn't answer._

_"He was obsessed with money. Probably too obsessed. Got a taste for the cards that he never quit again." Doffy shifted, his arm moving. "And he pissed it all away. Their wealth, their power. Their freedom. All of it for some **stupid** delusion."_

_Rosinante sat up. "Brother..."_

_"Soon, they had nothing. Only the clothes on their backs. No more special now than the peasants who'd tilled their fields. His daughter forgave him. She accepted their new lives and didn't begrudge him his mistakes. A mistake of her own actually."_

_Scrik. Scrik._

_"He tried to fix things. Find work and quit gambling. He didn't know how. He had no fucking clue of what to expect from this new terrible world. He failed, Rosi. And one night, he was so sad, so drunk and disappointed with himself, that something snapped upon his final losing hand. He took those fists, which we're so acquainted with now, and beat to death the man who'd trumped him."_

_Doffy snorted, a dry, cold sound, as Rosinante's eyes widened._

_"They locked him up and there he sat in his horrid little cell, waiting for his daughter to post bail. She never did. She'd fallen in love, you see. Found a corner of light in her bleak, bleak life. He'd known this. Had even been happy for her. But what he didn't know was that it'd been the same man he'd beaten into a stain just a fortnight ago. And she just couldn't forgive him this time. He hadn't known that either."_

_Scrik. Scrik. Scrik._

_"They found her in bed with her wrists slit, clutching a letter from her lover, and pinned her death on him too. He was imprisoned for...forty years, I think. There in the dark."_

_The world was blurring at its corners, going watery and soft. Pity filled his heart and Rosinante touched his own face, had to smear the tears from his eyes just as his brother finally turned around. A crimson line dragged on the floor. Doffy cracked his knuckles, every nail broken, mouth a glinting crescent of teeth._

_"So you see, Rosi," his brother said, "Old fool had this coming."_

* * *

They spend most of the day cleaning the station rooms for Captain Enzo, who looks constantly on the edge of a blubbering meltdown and preoccupies himself for hours calculating and re-calculating his retirement pension. He's not interested in taking them around base, simply granting them leave to explore as they pleased.

"Except the basement holding cell," he says, hands crossing and uncrossing. "You stay out of there. I won't be responsible for what happens."

So naturally, the first thing that happens once they leave the captain's office is a proposal to explore said basement holding cell. 

"C'mon," the most gung-ho of them, Fullbody, says, "Aren't you curious about what they're keeping down there? Must be like, a big name bounty or something."

A fiery female rookie huffs. "You sound stupid. They'd never be able to hold a big name bounty in a tiny little cell in the basement. It's probably an animal. Something rare maybe. Like a white tiger."

"Now who sounds stupid?" Fullbody mutters and yelps a second later, dropping his dust rag when she takes a swing at him. The other cadets giggle and Rosinante smiles faintly too. He shuts the supply closet behind him, casting an idle glance down the hall. The narrow basement stairs tunnel into the darkness at the end. Only a single bulb survives, granting flickering light at the entrance. It bears resemblance to the start of some cheap horror flick, but the sense of foreboding is undeniable. 

"If you're so eager, why don't you go check it out first?" the female rookie is saying to Fullbody.

"Maybe I will!" He snaps, chest puffing at the challenge, faltering very obviously however when he turns, eyes darting towards the pitch-blackness further down. "H-Hey, Rosinante," he says, inching behind his shadow, "wanna go check it out?"

"Cheater," a wave of voices accuse immediately. "Don't use Rosinante as your shield."

Fullbody flips them off, bearing his teeth, before sending Rosinante a more beseeching look. "What do ya say? Please?"

Rosinante has no desire to go in truth, though he's teenage boy enough to dread admitting he's creeped out. "The captain gave express orders," he mutters.

Fullbody laughs nervously. "That sad old mess? He doesn't have to know. Not like we're going down there to release anything. It's just a peek." Subtly, he nudges Rosinante forward. "C'mon, n-not afraid of the dark, are ya?"

It's a messy combination of youth and exasperation that has Rosinante agreeing in the end. He leads the way to the stairwell, trying to ignore how Fullbody is indeed already trying to use him as a shield. The bulb is even dimmer up close, and the shadows below seem to spring forward with every flicker, ascending step by step. 

Fullbody swallows so loudly it echoes. 

"On second thought," he says, tossing his dyed-pink hair, "Haha, you're probably right. Captain's orders are captain's orders. We should go back. W-Who cares what those idiots think right? They didn't even get this far..."

Rosinante squints, peering into the darkness in vain. It's swirling. Endless. He realizes suddenly that someone's locked down there all alone. 

"...Why aren't there any lights?"

Fullbody stares at him. "What? I dunno, probably not worth the beri. Who cares anyway, let's get outta here before someone catches us."

He tugs on Rosinante's shirt, but he's regarding the bulb now, frowning slightly. Rosinante reaches up, attempting to screw it on tighter. That's also the moment Captain Enzo's voice goes hurdling across the building, calling them for the mess hall. Fullbody jumps straight out of his skin.

"C'mon!" he squeaks, snatching for Rosinante's arm. He misses somehow and bumps into him instead. 

The rest is self-explanatory. 

Rosinante's eyes widen as his feet trip over each other. He catches Fullbody's shocked face only once, before tumbling head-first down the stairs.

* * *

_"Doffy...what did you do?"_

_His brother smiled, crouching in front of the bed. "Come with me," he said and offered his hand._

_It looked grisly, covered in dried and fresh blood, but Rosinante took it without hesitating. He held his brother's hand very gingerly and wanted to ask Doffy why he kept doing such a thing to himself, if he'd at least let Rosinante wrap his fingers before they went off to wherever they were going. But Doffy had already pulled them out of the hut, an odd excitement about him. He didn't slow down, not even when Rosinante stumbled over a root and was almost dragged several feet down the road._

_There were plenty of stars out, but the trail ahead remained muddled. Rosinante didn't know how Doffy was able to see anything with shades on and only one unbandaged eye._

_But they made it through town without causing a stir. Doffy led him along the branching creek, picking over the rocks swiftly and without fumble--his grace silent and feline, weightless in a way that Rosinante would never find description for. "Careful," his brother warned, saving him for the sixth time from a freezing dip in the water, "Keep hold of my hand."_

_He tried his best, even though Doffy's palm was slick and difficult from blood. Only once did he lose his grip, a staggering second with his brother vanished in the dark, before he managed to latch fingers onto his wrist. He felt Doffy stiffen instantly, stopping dead in the middle of a step. He felt him twitch and spin at him._

_"S-Sorry," Rosinante stammered, "I didn't...I didn't mean to let go. I'm sorry."_

_Doffy was quiet. Rosinante thought he was going to yank his arm away then, but he didn't. Just sighed and turned back to the path._

_"I know," he muttered, "Hurry up."_

* * *

By some miracle, he manages not to shatter his nose when he finally lands in a heap at the base of the stairs. Rosinante groans, seeing nothing for a second but a tie-dye of blotches and spots. The breath's been knocked clean out of his lungs and he can only lie there a moment, utterly winded and bruised.

"Ugh." He drags himself into a sitting position, rubbing his head as Fullbody half-hysterically calls his name from above. "I'm fine," he replies, just to calm him down and hears Fullbody stutter something about getting Captain Enzo, before failing to process the rest.

It's incredibly dark in the basement. The stone floor is smooth and oddly moist, like the surface of a fish eye, and the air is laden with polish and mildew. 

Something rattles, the metallic din of chains. And something chuckles. A deep, husky sound.

"You alright there, little boy?"

Rosinante freezes, going deathly pale. _Stay still._ A ghost reminds him. _Stay still._

"Well, I can hear that racing heart of yers from here, so I'm guessing yer fine," the voice says, "Heard yer friend making a fuss up there earlier too. Have a penchant for dangerous games, do ya? I can relate." A full-on laugh this time, louder than a clap of thunder, louder than dragons, even the walls seem to shrink before that sound. Rosinante scrambles backwards on his hands. He touches something waxy and slightly lumpy and almost falls flat again. It's a half-used candle, he realizes as his vision adjusts. 

"But you beat him down here, eh? Whether you meant to or not. Always was fond of lads like you, with an extra spring in their step. What's your name?"

Across from him, the cell bars are almost visible now too. A figure languishes on the other side, the shoulders hunched, and seated on the ground. It's obviously very tall, even more than Rosinante who's about to break seven feet. 

"Well, boy?"

The voice is patient, not even remotely angry, but his heart jumps up his throat regardless. "R-Rosi--" he clears his throat, "Rosinante."

"Rosinante," it's tried out for a moment, "What a complicated name. Your friends call you, Rosi, instead?"

He thinks it's too dark for anything to see him stiffen, but the voice makes an amused sound right after. "Heh, probably not then." Chains strike the ground. The figure seems to lean back, resting against the cell wall. "Welcome to my humble abode, Rosinante. I'd introduce myself as well, but it'd hardly matter at this point." The voice softens. "So forgive the rudeness, yeah?"

* * *

_It was a shallow gulley where the creek ended, mud splattering across the curves of the ditch. Pinprick fireflies scattered from the brush as they drew near, their small footsteps sinking in the marshy earth. The air was fetid. Decay and moss._

_Puke and vodka._

_Rosinante saw him over the curve of Doffy's shoulder. The drunken man lay shuddering amongst the reeds. His broad, horrible hands cradling his punctured stomach. Stabbed almost fifty times._

_"Look, Rosi," his brother said and pointed, bone-white face glowing. "Look."_

* * *

"Not from around Loguetown, I see," the voice says, "Not even close. Did ya want to see the world? I get that. I was born here myself, but...well, this must be the second time I've been here my whole life. Quite a lonelier experience, I have to say."

"You're alone?"

Rosinante's hand almost flies to his mouth, the words having sprung off his tongue without will. A slight gasp escapes him too, but the voice chuckles and doesn't acknowledge it.

"Yeah, kid, it's just me now." Whether the tone is of sorrow or mirth Rosinante can't tell. 

"...Why are you here?"

"Got arrested of course."

"Really?" Rosinante says before he can help himself, "Captain Enzo's afraid of you."

"Ha, marines." More shifting. "Never did understand you lot. Tell him not to fret. My sunset's at Loguetown. Always was gonna be."

Rosinante stares at the shadow through the bars, eyes growing huge. "You're on death row?"

"Hm, sure am. Execution's next month. That's when the summer flowers bloom actually. Everywhere in Baterilla. You ever been?" A sigh. "Beautiful, y'know. Just beautiful."

Rosinante doesn't know. He has trouble remembering places for anything but their ghosts, let alone their beauty. 

"Your...family's there?"

"Family? Heh, my family's all over the place now, across the four blues, but...yeah. In the sense of yer question, I've got family in Baterilla. My girl. My son." The voice grows soft again. "But you don't wanna know about all that. No one should ever drone on about their life story. Bad taste in my opinion. You should be off." 

Rosinante's aware. He's going to get in so much trouble, double even what he's expecting if Fullbody crumbles and piles all the blame on him. He really should be off, but...

"I don't mind," he says, "I want to know."

* * *

_He clenched his brother's wrist, sweat-sticky, pupils tinier than dots. "Doffy," he said, breath shivering, "what did you do?"_

_Doffy's grin slackened instantly. He blinked and his reply took forever, vague with confusion._

_"What do you mean? Don't you see him there?"_

_"Don't **you?** " Rosinante said, pulling Doffy around, "We need to get help!"_

_Now his brother looked stunned. "Help? Why?"_

_What do you mean why? Rosinante wanted to scream, his heart beginning to quiver as adrenaline coursed through his veins. The man was still moving, his chest inflating and deflating weakly. If they ran back to town, or if Father had perhaps returned, there could still be a chance._

_"Let's go, Doffy!" he said and yanked his brother, who was still shocked enough to comply. They hadn't gone more than three steps though, when a voice halted them._

_"You're wasting your time with the townsfolk." A silhouette stepped from the shadows. Pitch black lens for glasses and a shiny bob of dark hair. A crust of blood hung on his cheek. Rosinante wondered if this was a nightmare._

_Doffy turned back around. "Vergo."_

_The boy nodded, hands out of sight. "Young master."_

_"You were suppose to get out of here."_

_"Apologies. I was on my way." It was directed at Doffy, Vergo's words, but Rosinante could feel his stare roaming coolly across his face. "I couldn't help but overhear is all. The town hates outsiders, as I'm sure you're perfectly aware. They would never help this sad sack of garbage and you'd just get beaten again for your trouble."_

_"Then Father!" Rosinante tugged on his brother's wrist, eyes flashing with terror, "O-or we could bring back supplies ourselves. It'd be--"_

_"Pointless." Stars twinkled in Vergo's glasses. "It takes thirty minutes to bleed to death from a gut wound." He drew out his right hand. The switchblade dangled in his loose, blood-soaked hold. "He's already been lying here for twenty-six."_

_Rosinante didn't remember if he said anything. His whole body had gone numb. What he was feeling though--that must've reflected over his features, since Doffy touched his face then, looking faintly troubled. "Rosi?"_

_His hand had blood on it too. A sudden urge in Rosinante wanted to throw him off, wanted to run screaming his lungs out and never ever look back again. It rampaged through him, ice-hot, before he managed to recall that his brother had broken all his nails earlier. That the blood was only his own._

_"Doffy," he whispered through colorless lips._

_His brother relaxed, mouth curving, as if he was taking his response then as acceptance. Like all was right with the world again._

_"I know you're confused," he said, "I know you're scared. But there's no reason to feel that way anymore. He'll never touch you...never hurt you again. Stop crying, Rosi. Why are you always crying? He isn't worth it."_

_"W-Why did you--" Rosinante swallowed. "Even after hearing all of that, why did you..."_

_Doffy cocked his head. "What do you mean? Why should it matter to me what sob-fest of a backstory he has? He decided it'd be okay to mess with us, thought he'd take pleasure in beating us down. Made my little brother ask me if we ever should've existed." Doffy grabbed his shoulder with his free hand. His functioning eye peered from over the shades. It was suddenly angry, suddenly grotesque with fury._

_"And that, Rosi, isn't the sort of **fucking** shit I'll allow. Do you hear me?"_

* * *

The voice told Rosinante about a woman in Baterilla. Her eyes, her freckles, her favorite white dress which twirled like a feather over the gorge. That final memory of her hands resting over the bump of her belly. He'd presented her with astounding treasures, riches that could've defied comprehension, and yet her favorite gifts had been the garlands he'd woven her from the wildflowers. The hibiscuses he'd threaded through her hair.

"That hair of hers," the voice says so quietly, "Her hair was...like a candle. Like a flame in the dark. My god, can you imagine?" 

"I can imagine the dark," Rosinante replies.

A pause. He swears the shadow studies him.

"You're not made for it, kid."

"I knew it for years."

"And wasn't it painful?" 

Rosinante stares at the ground. The silence stretches thin and long.

Then the voice says, "You mind some advice, Rosinante? From an old, soon-to-be-dead no one?"

* * *

_Vergo smiled. It held a glimpse of admiration, left unconcealed._

_"Well said, young master." His left hand dropped then too and brandished the lead pipe, holding it out to Doffy like a prized sword for battle._

_"Three more minutes, you know," said Vergo._

_Doffy did not hesitate. He did not pause, he was smiling wider even than Vergo and Rosinante almost didn't process himself what he was doing until he'd already snatched the pipe out of Vergo's hand and chucked it as far as he could into the brush. He didn't observe the surprise and then ink-black darkness which crowned over Vergo's expression. Barely spared a look at him at all._

_His brother was the only thing he saw._

_"Doffy." Rosinante clutched his wrist. "Let's go."_

_His brother was taken aback, so genuinely perplexed Rosinante felt sick inside. "Rosi," he said after a while, "You just--"_

_He shook his head. "Let's go."_

_Vergo prodded the drunken man with a shoe. He moaned, wheezing, rheumy eyes blinking open a second before rolling into his skull. His body rattled at the brink of death's door._

_"Young master."_

_Doffy didn't glance at them. "Rosi, isn't this what--"_

_"I wanna go home."_

_"But--"_

_"Doffy!" he said, and his eyes squeezed shut, felt tears gathering amongst the heat. If he loves you, his own voice whispered to him, if he's ever loved you at all then..._

_"Brother, please."_

* * *

"The stars have a tune," the voice says, "which everyone must dance to. Sooner or later. So you gotta look forward. Gotta decide your own stage. And keep the past where it belongs. Don't ever let it be the only direction you know." The chains rattle. The figure seems to lean forward.

"Understand, boy?"

Rosinante nods dumbly. He wonders though, if he does. 

The voice grunts in approval. "Good." 

There's a noise like cloth ruffling, like coat sleeves crossing against each other. A herd of footsteps thud overhead then too and Rosinante hears Fullbody screaming his name at a crazy high-pitch, as if he's fallen into the abyss instead of down a flight of stairs. 

"Seems like you really ought to be on your way this time."

Rosinante nods again. Doesn't move though.

"What's her name?" he says, "If you'd like, I...could deliver a message for you."

There's a laugh again. It's almost fond.

"You've really got such heart, boy. Must be beating for two, huh?"

He has no idea what that means, but the voice is continuing on, "Kind of you to offer, but she already knows everything I have to say. Fierce and brilliant, that lady of mine. Just a shame I won't get to meet our son. Or see that hair of hers one last time."

Rosinante's expression falls. "I'm sorry."

"Ha, don't be sorry, kiddo. I lived wildly and truly. I was freer than any bird could dream to be. And it was a mighty fine run, trust me on that. Don't be sorry." 

But he is. It's at his core. Caused his brother endless frustration too. 

Rosinante stands, dismal. Something rolls over and knocks against his shoe. He looks down.

* * *

_"Okay," Doffy whispered, nodding blankly, hastily. He's baffled, but the blue disc of his eye was on Rosinante's tears. A thumb slid over his face, halted at his salt-crusted cheek. Doffy's features pinched tight. "Okay, fine, let's go home."_

_Rosinante nodded as well, mouth a white line. Vergo said something, which Doffy mumbled a reply to. He didn't hear it._

_Then eventually Vergo disappeared and Doffy was walking with him back down the creek. It was still dark and he tripped several times without complaining. He didn't let go of Doffy's wrist, even when his brother muttered that his touch was clammy and cold. Doffy didn't press the issue._

_When he tripped a final time and bloodied up his knee though, Doffy stopped. His brother reached into his pocket and produced a ragged book of matches, freed one and struck it alight with deft fingers._

_"Here," he said, sliding the rest of the set into Rosinante's pocket. "Not sure I should be giving this to you, but...it's for the dark. So you don't keep falling on your face like a fool."_

_He looked away without waiting for Rosinante's reaction. Almost purposefully. The discomfort in him was obvious. He still didn't understand, that was clear too. In all honesty, Rosinante couldn't fathom why._

_But he didn't want to fight. Doffy's chastised mood only lasted so long, before he started believing someone else was at fault. He didn't want to fight. Not after what just happened._

_So Rosinante nodded and mumbled, "Thank you." Doffy grunted and that was all._

* * *

The candle wick is nearly a stub, but still long enough for a flame. Rosinante grins in triumph, turning back to the cell. He slips the stick between the bars, while digging in his pants-pocket. His fingers settle over that old familiar shape, lingers there for only a beat.

"Here," he says, and slides the book of matches in too. "I'll ask Captain Enzo if I can at least get the lights fixed down here, but for now...please use this."

A snort. "You sure? Gonna let me play with fire? I could melt these chains, blast a hole through the floor if I wanted to."

Rosinante tilts his head. "But you don't," he says, gesturing at the candle, "You just want to see her hair. One last time and that's all. Am I wrong?" 

The pause is a surprised one. Rosinante doesn't have time to wonder why though, rushing for the stairs. He hears Enzo tearing into Fullbody, both of their voices equally shrill. His hand has just touched the railing, when he hears the soft 'flick' of a match being struck. He peers over his shoulder. 

A bright flame nurses on the wick. It webs out in a wavering puddle of light, abating the shadows.

Rosinante sees his grin first. Then his black hair and curved mustache. The piercing circles of his eyes. A red coat.

"Thanks, kiddo."

Rosinante nods mechanically, gaze wide with inexplicable awe. He turns and climbs out of the dark.

* * *

_"...Are you mad at me still?" Doffy asked suddenly, when they'd made it back to the shack, when they were sitting against the sill and Rosinante's squinting into the distance for any sign of their father._

_His brother glared at the horizon, legs similarly tucked up. He looked lost. Looked almost small, if that could even be possible for Doffy. Like his feelings have been terribly hurt somehow._

_Rosinante's wretched heart couldn't help itself. It was soft. It had to beat for two._

_"No," he said, bumping his brother's shoulder, "I'm not mad at you."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty sure it's obvious who Rosi was talking to, but I'm gonna keep him out of the tags for extra fun XD


	2. Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Corazon Week! I'm super late to the game, but here's my submission for **Day 3: Memory**. The pieces will mostly follow Rosinante as he grows up with the Marines (maybe Doffy and Law will make cameos, not sure yet).
> 
> Additionally, this fic can also be set in the same universe as _astra inclinant_ , but canon-verse will work too.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

* * *

_This is what he remembers:_

Burgundy locks and shaved scalp. Quirked lips and cobalt eyes. The breeze in the courtyard sifting through her coat, making it sway _(Justice, Justice)_ , spilling mischief from the pockets. Swindled cigarettes and hustled sticks of gum. Clementines plucked from Sengoku's altar. 

She swears like a sailor and crouches down in the grass, gathers them together in furtive sweeps. He picks up the little orange that has rolled to his boot and offers it back dumbly, even though he's sat through more of Sengoku's rants about thievery than he can count, even though she eyes him like he's sporting an extra head or three.

"Thanks," she says, minute-pause, fingers brushing upon his as she takes the fruit back, "The cadet from last spring right?"

"Yes, ma'am," he says, and tries to clack his heels and raise a hand in salute. _Try_ being the key word here. A second later, he's stammering apologies, having almost taken out his own eye, then tripped and nearly fell ontop of her. The ever-plague of his clumsiness has become the bane of headquarters for rookies and superiors alike. In his wryer moments, Sengoku enjoys commenting on this unprecedented equality.

But she merely shores him up as if he weighs nothing, pats the imaginary dust from his uniform. She _(saw the lamb in him, as Vice Admiral Tsuru would say later)_ smiles and her teeth are pretty and white, slightly crooked along the top.

"Our secret okay?" she says, and sets the stolen clementine back into his palm, folding his long fingers over it. Her voice is soft. Coyly amused. He can hear the _thud-thud_ of his own heart against his ears.

"I'm Rosinante," he says, as if it's an apt reply and blushes enough to hemorrhage when he realizes it isn't.

She laughs. Nose crinkled and the sound lighter than air. Clearer and truer than morning. She splays a hand over her collarbone, the hollow spot above her heart.

"Bellemere."

* * *

 

For a captain, her speech is invariably loose. She brushes aside formality as if it's a burden or an obstacle in her way. 

"At ease, cadet," she drawls, after throwing an arm over his shoulder and making him yelp and sit upright. She grins when her feet dangle an inch off the floor, head tilting to the side. "You know, Rosinante, I heard about you while I was out at sea."

He blinks, a flutter of unease in his belly. "...You have, ma'am?"

"Sure, 1746," She pokes his cheek. "Sengoku's boy. Have to admit I never thought the old codger would have kids. You don't look a thing like him."

Rosinante blushes again, partly because he's never heard anyone refer to the Fleet Admiral as 'old codger' and partly because he can feel the curve of her breasts against his spine. "O-Oh, I'm not...he took me in, that's all, I'm not..." He clears his throat, draining the muddle of unnecessary words. "I'm not his son."

"But he _is_ your father?"

Rosinante stares at her, but Bellemere looks back like it's the most sensible question in the world.

"...No," he hesitates and then, "My father's dead."

She frowns and very suddenly releases him. Her eyes are hard, akin to flint, and there's reproach in them, like he's answered wrong somehow, some way, much to his alarm.

* * *

 

Bellemere smokes through packs per week and can drink whole crowds of men under the table. Her temper unfurls like the sting of a whipcord. She's horrendous with money, addicted to gambling. She's a little miserable and plenty alone. Sengoku tells Rosinante not to pay too much attention. He thinks as far as influences go, Bellemere's about as horrible as they come.

Rosinante knows very, very well how untrue that is. 

At seventeen, he is not a blank canvas anymore, colors splattered and dried, frame ripped at every edge. The picture of how things will be is taking shape now and though it is hideous and not the one he wants, it is the one he sees. 

Bellemere splashes across it tones of rouge and scarlet, creams and oranges like the clementines she adores. She does so without apology, a wicked glint in her smile. Hers is of confidence and pride. Of pain and protectiveness and lost ways. It is familiar and old and because of that, it _hurts,_ but Rosinante is drawn in helplessly.

* * *

She kisses him the first time he passes his firearms training. She's been teaching him, hand on waist, steadying the elbow because she can't reach his shoulder. She's realized that he just lacks the coordination for the standard-issue Marine rifle and has him trade it in for a flintlock instead. 

After every target is left smoldering with bullseyes and even the examiner has whistled in awe, she gestures for him to lean down. It's fleeting, barely two seconds, but enough for him to register the heat of her lips, the blossom smells of her hair. 

"Not bad, cadet," she says and slips off before his fellow rookies are leaping at him, whooping with glee. 

* * *

 

He's nineteen when she shows him how to make love. The two of them are honestly not so far apart in age, three years at the most, but those three years may as well have been a lifetime.

Rosinante is a blonde mountain of nerves and sweat. He is afraid of every little thing, that he'll hurt her or crush her, that he's too heavy and big. Bellemere guides him along, amused and fond and impatient all at once. She moves between the sheets the same way she fights, like an acrobat, complete flexibility and grace. The coarseness of her palms does not apply to the underside of her arms or the rim of her hips, which are as smooth as summer petals.

"So sweet," she says, loose hair dragging along his chest. She says it over and over, like the words make him in turns endearing and boggling. Only later in the night would he hear about the abuse, the running away, the homelessness and tricks on the street. He is learning that suffering is not selective, not exclusive, not gated to that little corner island of the North Blue where his family shattered and died.

"Disgusted yet?" she asks, and Rosinante shakes his head, completely honest.

"No."

"I don't want your pity."

"I don't pity you," he says, even though he's his father's son and he does, just a little bit, "How did you end up a marine?"

To this, Bellemere's smile is faint. "My hometown, when I eventually made it back. The folk there, the mayor, they picked me up and set me straight. Said I ought to go make something of my life. I don't think the Marines was what they had in mind, but..." She chuckles, breath tickling his bicep. "Sometimes, Rosinante, family isn't the same as blood. Sometimes, they are as far apart as you can imagine."

Her voice gains strength as she speaks. He feels her lift her head in the dark, pointed chin resting on his shoulder. "But you probably don't know what I mean, do you? Your parents...they sounded lovely. Wonderful. They could never have failed you."

And they hadn't, Rosinante still believes that without question. Even though he does indeed know what she means.

* * *

__

_This is what he remembers:_

Rosinante makes Marine Commander at twenty-two. He is leaving for the North Blue, despite Sengoku's attempts to convince him otherwise, despite Tsuru's soft and heavy warnings. He is not ready, _not ready at all,_ but he is still leaving. 

Bellemere waits with him at the pier. They smoke and watch the sunset. It's a peaceful, companiable silence, and even though he doubts she knows what his mission entails, her expression is impossibly calm. 

Rosinante grapples with the words to say. He feels he owes her an explanation.

"My parents never failed me," he starts, stops, continues, "My parents never failed me but...but I _was_ failed, once upon a time."

Bellemere takes another drag of her cigarette. She looks at him with soft eyes, beautiful and unbelievable eyes and he blurts, "I have a brother."

"I know," she says, without letting him finish, because she does. She knows that he couldn't have gone on with that sentence anyway. Rosinante's chest twists as the boat arrives. His heart aches in places that he's almost forgotten were there, that have not been visited since he was eight years old. 

Bellemere stands up and tosses her cigarette into the sea. She smiles and squeezes Rosinante's arm, says she's proud and wishes him luck. Then she moves to let go and he realizes he does not want this to be how it ends.

It's the first, last and only time he takes her by surprise. Bellemere's gasp is sealed beneath his lips, his arm winds about the dip of her back, his other hand cupping her face, fingers gentle against the shape of her skull.

"You're beautiful, ma'am," he says once they part, breathless, because he's never told her and it's so _true_ , so unfathomably and deeply true and it's a chronic problem of Rosinante's - this inability to spit out the truth, even if it's what needs to be heard. 

Bellemere laughs her stunning, musical laugh. She reaches up and brushes the bangs out of his eyes. The tips of her lashes are wet and glimmering.

"I'll be seeing you again, cadet," she rasps, with unflinching certainty, as iron-clad as a promise, "I will. Is that understood?"

Rosinante smiles and nods, ignoring the empty twinge inside. 

"Understood."

Then he pulls her close, inhaling her scent one final time, trying to commit it to memory.

* * *

_This is what he remembers in the snow of Minion Island._


	3. Abandoned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for **Day 4: Abandoned** , it's the 12th somewhere in the world, shhh

* * *

The boy hardly sleeps that first month. He is sallow and swollen-eyed from crying, and clings to Sengoku's pant leg like it's the only thing keeping him upright. The cuticles of his nails have been chewed to the bed. He picks at his food, even though Sengoku has offered every dish imaginable and he can't believe the boy _isn't_ hungry given the protruding angles of his shoulders and ribs. 

He seems to hate the Marine Headquarters, ducking behind Sengoku's shadow whenever someone tries to greet him, no matter how unassuming (or _assuming_ in Garp's case) the men try to be. In the office, Rosinante sits in a corner of the room or on the couch or wherever he's asked to go and stares at the wall. 

Sengoku is honestly at a loss. Thirty years of naval service are rendered embarrassingly impotent when faced with this child, who looks like he will never smile or laugh or be happy again. 

"It's obvious, you fool," Tsuru says one afternoon, finally tossing him a bone, "He's not at ease here. Think about what he's gone through, the things he must have seen. How is all this daily havoc with the guns and the yelling suppose to make him feel safe?"

It's so plain when she puts it that way, though Tsuru has always had a knack for disentangling the crooked wefts of life and giving it to people straight. Much like his moniker, Sengoku has a revelation. Then much unlike it, he panics.

* * *

He brings Rosinante to his uncle's old farm, a humble piece of land in a remote corner of the Sabaody Archipelago. Out of the past four generations, the man had been the only one to buck tradition and leave the Marines. Sengoku had spent almost every summer break with him, collecting wood or watering crops, gorging himself on cream-coated milk and ripened plums. His uncle hadn't cared in the least for posture and expectations, and for three months he would run through the mud, climb trees, slouch, explore his fill and be whoever he wanted to be. To him, there had been no safer place in the world.

He hopes Rosinante might feel the same.

"It's a bit smaller than before," he says, as they hike up the trail, the child nestled in the crook of his arm, "I didn't have enough time to run a full-scale operation, but all the good stuff's still here. I've got a couple hands coming around every day to help keep things running. They might have already left though. It's almost late noon, the work doesn't take that long." Sengoku realizes he's blathering. Whether it's due to fatigue from the trip or the fact that Rosinante has actually cast more than a single listless glance about him, Sengoku isn't sure. 

He takes the boy on a tour, showing him the paddy fields and orchards, the chicken coop with the proud, sauntering rooster. Rosinante sits up a little. He's never seen a live chicken up close. ("Only the bones," he murmurs and Sengoku tries not to stiffen too noticeably.) 

It is the pasture with the small herd of goats that he seems to enjoy best. Sengoku is surprised to find the caretaker, Mai, still there. She is a mother of two children herself and her eyes light up when she sees Rosinante, who manages to at least shake her hand before drawing back in shyness. Mai laughs, her smile soft. In hindsight, Sengoku never did explain to her where Rosinante came from, but he will wonder if perhaps she had figured most of it out all the same. 

"Today lucky day," she says, before glancing up at Sengoku, "One of mother goats give birth this morning. Triplets."

He stares, stunned, though he supposes that explains why she's still here. Mai's look at him is wry, before she returns her gaze to Rosinante, who's lifted his head, a flash of curiosity welling up in his features. 

"Babies in field now," she offers her hand, "We go see, little heart?"

Rosinante glances at her in obvious interest, but doesn't budge until Sengoku makes a point of following behind.

* * *

Like any infant creature, the kids are undeniably charming. Two of them are suckling from their grazing mother, their coats the same swiss-marked pattern as hers, dark body and tan legs. 

"Left one name is Coco. Her sister on right called Cookie," Mai says, leaning against the fence where Sengoku has set Rosinante down on, "Cute, yes?"

Rosinante nods, expression enchanted. A very faint smile curves on his mouth and Sengoku's heart goes leaping far higher than it should. He's wearing a giant grin of his own when he ruffles the child's hair, earning himself an owlish blink, before he turns back to the farmhand.

"They were triplets right? Where's the third one?"

To his confusion, Mai's expression slightly falls, garnering a troubled light. "Well..." she says.

* * *

Unlike his siblings, the third kid sports a white coat, pure and sparkling as snow. He's every bit as bouncy and energetic as his sisters, but is smaller. Much, much smaller. Sengoku can see the problem already and only has it confirmed when Mai sets the kid down in the pasture and his mother clicks away from him with barely a glance. The baby tries again and again, struggling to catch up with his siblings who bound after her effortlessly. The doe, whatever she could be thinking, is set on leaving him behind and after several failed attempts, the little kid has to lie down and rest, bleating pitifully after them. 

Mai sighs, heading back into the field to scoop him up.

"Tried everything," she says when they return, "She not take him. Abandoned."

Rosinante releases Sengoku's sleeve and edges forward. There's distress in his eyes as he reaches out to stroke the kid's neck - small, gentle strokes that has the baby cocking its head in wonder at him.

"Abandoned?" Rosinante whispers and Sengoku wonders if he'd even meant to say the word out loud. He exchanges glances with Mai, who looks a little concerned and a little like she understands.

* * *

Rosinante names the baby goat, Yuki. For the three weeks Sengoku is able to take leave, Mai comes around and stays late every day, teaching Rosinante how to care for the delicate creature. The boy listens with rapt attention, with near fire in his eyes, determined to learn the correct way to hold, to feed, to play, to love. Sengoku reminds him not to take things too seriously.

"You don't have to be so careful," he says, helping the boy tie a ribbon and bell around Yuki's neck, "You don't have to get it all right. Love him and he'll meet you halfway." 

Rosinante looks down, hands sliding off Yuki's back to wring in his own shirt. There's a silence before he speaks, voice small and bare. 

"...then why?" 

Sengoku blinks.

"Why what, son?"

But Rosinante shakes his head. His chin wobbles and there are tears in his eyes for the first time since they arrived. Another beat passes as he struggles, trying to hold the sounds in, before he can't anymore and starts to weep. It is the soft kind. The kind where it hurts the most. Tiny gulps of air that look violent enough to rattle the frail body out of its seams. Sengoku says nothing more. He doesn't try to puzzle out what happened.

He just reaches over and hugs the child to him, feels the grip of his old aching heart as the little hands latch on. Rosinante, he realizes, holds to him sometimes like he's drowning. 

Yuki trots over and licks the salt from the boy's cheek.

* * *

Sengoku knows they can't stay any longer when Vice Admiral Kuzan of all people calls, half complaining and half imploring him to return to Marineford. Both Garp and Tsuru are terrifying substitute supervisors, which is hardly news, but the effect has magnified beneath the constant requirement of their presence. 

He sighs as he hangs up. He does have his obligations. His duties.

And the boy is eating now. He's gained at least one or two pounds, some color in his cheeks and has taken to wandering around the farm on his own, Yuki at his side. He laughs more. He smiles. Perhaps he's ready.

Mai shoves a collar and leash into Sengoku's hand the evening before they go. "Take Yuki," she says, very simply.

* * *

On a golden dawn, they say farewell to Mai, Rosinante blushing fiercely as he thanks her for everything. Mai kneels down and hugs him, kissing the crown of his head.

"You are so good, little heart," she whispers, "So brave."

Rosinante stares at her and then at his shoes. He doesn't look like he agrees, but nods in politeness anyway. Sengoku picks him and Yuki up. Goat in one arm and child in the other, he's pretty sure there's some Fleet Admiral code he's breaking right now, but finds it doesn't matter.

Just like it doesn't matter how they'll manage to house a goat at headquarters. They can pen off a section of the courtyard, he supposes, or his office. The men can think of it as a mascot, a symbol, whatever suited them. Garp would find it too funny. Tsuru would not be pleased. They would understand when he told them it was for Rosinante.

As they walk down the trail, the child squirms around to look over Sengoku's shoulder, waving shyly back at Mai.

"Thank you, Sengoku-san," he says, so softly he nearly misses it. 

Sengoku thinks it might have been better for his pride if he had. He wanders through the train station after without feeling any of the stares, without noticing when Yuki starts nibbling on the edge of his sleeve. His heart, old and aching as it is, pools somewhere near his bones.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with f-ing adorable fanart from **cyan96**! Didn't realize I could paste pictures directly into the text box lol please excuse
> 
> [Here's](http://ccyans.tumblr.com) also a link to cyan's blog, please go check it out, her art is completely amazing!


	4. Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for **Day 5: Magic**

* * *

He does not really _know_ the power of a Devil Fruit until his first time out at sea. Oh, he's heard about them, read about them, is aware that nearly all of the upper ranked officials have skills borne of them. 

But there's an uncompromising line between the knowledge of something and the _knowing_ of something and Rosinante, after the wild thunder of his heart and the prickle of his flesh have somewhat subsided, realizes he hasn't had the slightest idea at all.

"You're staring," Vice Admiral Kuzan says, scratching the back of his head, "Is there something on my face?"

Perhaps it's a trick question. Ice fractals rim the man's towering body, crawling across the contours of his neck, his hair, one ear, the bridge of his nose. Rosinante's breath puffs out as fine white clouds, but Kuzan's had been a misty stream, swirling and crackling and sub-zero, caging everything in hard blue. It must stretch for miles, the gleaming ice, advancing inland like an implacable army and it is _cold,_ an absurd and plunging cold, where the metal helm of the ship has actually warped from not being out of the way in time.

"I didn't know," Rosinante says. Of course, he's still only beginning to realize just how much he does not know.

Kuzan's sluggish eyes - always half-asleep, always intimidating - flicker, rousing a mite.

"What?"

"You, sir," Rosinante forgets himself and points, because there's a breathless awe in his chest crowding out his senses. "That you could...do all this."

"Oh. Well, it's just my fruit's little specialty. What I'm good for."

"It's _magic._ "

Kuzan stares. A crease forms on his brow, as if there's something to mull over about the words. At the shoreline, giant Vice Admiral Lacroix is cursing Kuzan's mother and his birth and everything in between, having been forced to bodily rip the ship out of the ice's path. He's checking over every marine for frostbite and his voice booms through the island as he calls for Rosinante. 

It knocks him out of his reverie and certainly off his feet. Rosinante scrambles back up, in the present again, murmurs panicked apologies and excuses himself. He's turned toward the shore when Kuzan suddenly grabs his shoulder, hand no colder than the flesh of a normal man, and spins him around again.

"Don't call it that," the vice admiral says, throwing an arm in gesture behind them, at the ravaged trees, the split rocks, the wither and death, "This, kid, all of this...it's just a power. A force. It breaks what it touches and makes a mess. Things like this shouldn't be wondered after. It shouldn't be called magic. You understand?"

Stunned and slightly frightened, Rosinante nods. "I do, sir."

"Good." Kuzan brings in a closed fist, gathers ice beneath the curled fingers in a pale ream of frost. "Because _this_ ," he says, all gravity, "is magic."

His hand opens, revealing a miniature bird, shining and clear, carved like crystal out of the ice. Rosinante's too young, only fifteen, and can hardly help how his mouth falls ajar. 

Maybe with a shade of amusement, Kuzan offers the figurine, only nodding when Rosinante asks hurriedly if he's sure, his brick-dust eyes popped wide.

"Thank you," he says and will say, endlessly for the rest of the mission. 

And Kuzan's mouth, that ever flat and bored line, lifts just a bit at the edges.


	5. Teenage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for **Day 6: Teenage** , on the wrong day and still one more to go. Corazon Week was too hardcore for me lol.

* * *

"I can't believe you got us stuck here."

Rosinante laughs, rubbing his neck, sweating a little because Smoker's homicidal glare does not abate in the least. In fact, it only seems to deepen - one furious increment per nervous chuckle - and Rosinante makes a hurried note to put a lid on all the nervous chuckling before it gets him shunted off to the next world.

"Look, I'm sorry okay?" he says again, for probably the fifth time now, "But you really shouldn't have been fighting."

"You really shouldn't have interfered, " Smoker snarls, clattering another soaked and soapy plate onto the counter top. Rosinante sighs, wipes it dry and adds it to the stack. There are already several teetering behind them too, shiny and precarious, but the mountains of dirty dishes don't seem to shrink. 

He supposes they wouldn't with how Vice Admiral Garp keeps coming back in with more bins from the spare barracks. He's been housing a...gang of mountain bandits there? At least Rosinante thinks he heard those words somewhere in the middle of Sengoku's conniption. 

Rosinante cracks his neck, trying to loosen his muscles from being stooped for hours. Shooting up seven feet in nine years makes everything feel tight, including his own skin.

"Can we trade?"

"No." Smoker isn't even looking at him. Perhaps Rosinante's eye twitches a little. 

"Why not? You wash, I dry. I wash, you dry. It makes no difference."

"I'd have to disagree, _sir,_ " Smoker snaps, shoving another sopping plate into his hands, "If you recall, we started out with _you_ washing. We've lost ten bowls and four cups with _you_ washing and _you_ were washing for exactly eleven fucking minutes. So yeah, I think it makes a difference."

Then he starts scrubbing at the caked grease of an old wok like he's imagining it as Garp's face and Rosinante sighs. It'll be a long month.

* * *

In retrospect, maybe he should've just minded his own business. Smoker is surly and foul-mouthed, and can't seem to live without disrespecting authority. He's probably the first marine Rosinante has ever met with a petty crimes sheet longer than some criminals - vandalism, street-fighting, thievery - he's gotten his feet wet in it all. 

Sengoku initially denounced him as a punk, then a stray and then suddenly thought it a good idea to assign Rosinante as his direct supervisor, so he could "spend more time with people his own age." 

"Lieutenant or not, you're barely eighteen, Rosi. Act the way teenagers are suppose to. Like Smoker-kun."

So, start a fight every other hour, glare at people like they've all personally insulted him, and disagree with anything and everything on principle. Alright then. Did he mention start a fight?

Rosinante isn't even sure what exactly triggers the latest showdown in the mess hall that day, but one minute he's trying not to trip over his own tongue while speaking with Captain Bellemere and the next "Smoker-kun" is snapping a chair and throwing his mashed eggs into another rookie's face.

Now Rosinante is not actually a stranger to breaking up the occasional spat. He is, after all, huge and the biceps aren't there for show. But in contrast to the many other hotheads he's had to shove apart, Smoker is different in one very singular, very vital way that still manages to slip Rosinante's mind: the Devil Fruit.

As soon as Smoker dissolves under his hand and leaves him balanced over nothing but air, Rosinante knows the situation's fucked. For him, air may as well have been a solid object and he certainly trips like it is one. There's a lot more chair-snapping and mashed eggs flying after that. A fire too in time. And sprinklers. And yelling. 

He's pretty sure some of the swear words Smoker hurls at him are entirely made up. Not that Rosinante really pays too much attention when he's busy shriveling up in his own embarrassment. 

By the end and considering the state of the mess hall, busboy duties for a month is downright generous.

Doesn't stop Smoker from thinking otherwise and making a loud point of it anyway. Rosinante admires his drive. He can't even get past the fact that Captain Bellemere had been watching the whole time.

* * *

For the first week, it's an uncomfortable silence. Smoker speaks little to him aside from grunts for more soap or a towel, and of course the spurts where he's blaming Rosinante non-stop for their predicament. 

It gets old surprisingly fast. Rosinante likes to think he's rather patient. Likes to think he does not anger easily. It'd been practically required of him given the other _far_ more volatile personality of the household his parents had hoped he could soothe. 

And Smoker is not the worst as far as selfish behavior goes. Not by a long shot. 

Yet somehow, it still gets to him. 

"Why couldn't you just mind your own business? This is your fucking fault."

The plate creaks beneath Rosinante's hand. By the second week, he's stopped trying to apologize.

* * *

"It's not."

Smoker glares over his shoulder, tossing scummy dish water from the tub out the back. Rosinante stands at the door, staring back with a flicker of heat. 

"The hell are you--"

"My fault that is," Rosinante says, stepping closer, "It's not _my_ fault that we're doing any of this. It's yours."

The black of Smoker's eyes hardens. He drops the tub onto the grass. "Oh, yeah? How so?"

" _You_ were fighting. _You_ were causing a disruption. _You_ broke the rules, I didn't." Rosinante doesn't realize he's stepped onto the porch until he's stretching to his full height, blocking out the crimson sun at late noon. Smoker's expression doesn't change, stubbornly hiding any unease even as Rosinante's shadow spreads over him like a blanket. 

"It's all about the rules with you, isn't it?" he does say though, suddenly, and Rosinante's brow raises, because that's a plain question if he's ever heard one.

"Obviously. I'm a marine. And they're there for a reason."

"Right." It sounds derisive. "And that reason is?"

Rosinante doesn't even ponder.

"To tell us what's fair. And what's right from what's wrong." 

Smoker bursts out laughing. He's never heard the younger boy make any sound that wasn't a growl, a snarl or a curse word, but his laugh is every bit as rough, jagged and ugly. Rosinante's face begins to darken. He doesn't know what the hell could be so funny. 

Smoker ceases as abruptly as he started. Four seconds in total. Then his sneer is cold and unimpressed. 

"If you really need a bunch of drivel and dust to tell you that, then you're even more fucking clueless than I thought." 

He snatches up the tub and steps onto the porch, shoving Rosinante aside via his elbow and heads back into the kitchen.

* * *

The thing is... 

The thing is Rosinante cannot let that go. He's fine with being called lots of things, 'idiot,' 'fool,' 'klutz,' but never clueless. Never naive. Not when he has things which need to be done and...responsibilities that need to be upheld. Rosinante is not naive. He is _not_ fucking clueless. He can't afford to be. He doesn't have the luxury. 

Smoker doesn't know of course, about his past or the meaning of his surname or really _him,_ but that only makes Rosinante think he shouldn't be casting judgment at all.

* * *

"You don't know what you're talking about."

It's the middle of the third week and they're scouring the stew pots, having finished the plates and cutlery early. Smoker darts a glance at him, not pausing in his rinsing. 

"What are you babbling about now?"

"I follow the rules because they're _necessary,_ " Rosinante says curtly, as if they're not picking up a conversation from days and days ago, "I follow them because they help me keep perspective."

"You follow them because you _have_ no perspective," Smoker snorts in disgust, shakes his head. "You're just a golden boy. Thinking everything's so black and white and easy. You don't have the first clue. Rich spoiled upstarts like you never do."

Rosinante's fingers go still on the brush. 

"What did you just call me?" he asks quietly.

The room has become thick enough to slice apart like butter. Smoker sets down his pot, turns to look Rosinante directly in the eye.

"You," he says, "are a rich and spoiled upstart who probably has it all nice and cushy with your family connections and your old money." Smoker's lip curls, his eyes flash. "You don't know, sir, the meaning of what's fair. And you don't know the meaning of pain."

Rosinante yanks Smoker off the ground. Their pots go tumbling, crashing to the floor in a thunderous cacophony that vibrates against their bones. Rosinante will feel it later. He drags Smoker close, pulls him up with one hand so they're eye to eye again. There's a speck of shock in the younger boy's gaze, perhaps a moment of intimidation or understanding that he's crossed a line. 

Rosinante doesn't know. Doesn't care.

"Listen, Smoker-kun," he murmurs, "You can say a lot of things about me, have a lot of opinions, call me this or that until you turn blue and I honestly won't care, because the fact of the matter is I've had _worse._ So, so much worse." His hand tightens, tearing into the navy ascot of Smoker's uniform. "But if there's one thing that I will _never_ let you do, _never_ let you say about me, it's that I don't know what's fair. That I don't know the meaning of pain."

Smoker's stare is baleful at first, then shifting. Rosinante gazes right into it. He cannot comprehend why it's so easy for Smoker to pass judgment when it's such an impossible thing to undo. When passing judgment has the capability of destroying anything and everything.

"Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir," Smoker says, toneless.

Rosinante nods and sets him on the ground. Then he walks out past the upturned pots and the fallen brushes without a word, feeling Smoker's stare hot on his back.

* * *

He becomes mortified within half an hour of that day, but it takes him almost until nightfall to force his feet to Sengoku's office and ask for Smoker's reassignment.

"Oh, why? Looked like everything was going swimmingly."

Rosinante looks up from scratching Yuki's ear and scowls. 

"You can't be serious."

"Why shouldn't I be?"

"Because he _hates_ me, sir, and I..." Rosinante sighs, fiddles with Yuki's collar as the goat tries to eat his long coat. "He pushes my buttons, I guess. I didn't even know I _had--"_

__

"Exactly."

Rosinante looks up and Sengoku's hands are crossed and resting on his desk. "Why did Smoker anger you, Rosinante?" he says, "Because he dismisses the rules. Because he doesn't hold them to the same level as yourself. Impudent of him, but you should understand that, in a way, he's correct. Following rules does not mean justice is served. It is not always the right thing to do. Smoker has quite a grasp on this. I was hoping he could teach you."

"What are you talking about, sir?" Rosinante asks, exasperated, "If you mean that I--"

"I mean," Sengoku says, "that should there ever be a day when you're faced with choosing the rules in your head or the love in your heart then you ought to know which one it should be."

Rosinante's mouth flattens. He nods carefully, as if he understands, though he won't really understand until much, much later. Sengoku rises, plucking a folder out of his drawer and tossing it onto the couch next to him.

"Smoker's file," he says, "Reassignment denied."

* * *

Rosinante reads.

A runaway mother. An abusive drunk of a father. An older sister who finally took him and escaped. They bounced through foster care for a while and then the streets when they came of age. The older sister was caught stealing a loaf of bread. She'd brushed against the sleeve of a world noble when she'd ran. She was hung at noon.

Rosinante shuts the folder.

* * *

He has an apology all prepared when he enters the kitchen during their next shift, but is surprised to find Smoker there already. The dishes, even the mounds and mounds from Vice Admiral Garp's bandit friends, have been all cleaned and dried. The pots scrubbed, the waste water dumped and the towels and sponges put away. Plates, cups and utensils sit neatly on the counter in careful stacks.

Smoker is standing in front of the sink like he hasn't been working since probably the crack of dawn. They look at each other.

"I'm sorry," he says and Rosinante nods.

"Me too."

Without any dishes to wash, they end up having a beer together. 

"About the fight I got into," Smoker says, brows knitting for a second, face pinched, "That asshole was talking shit about an execution that happened a couple years back and I just couldn't listen to it anymore."

Rosinante turns slightly and asks, "What execution?"

Smoker takes another swig. His eyes are a little distant, a little red-rimmed and moist.

"A hanging."

* * *

On the last day of their punishment, Smoker gives him a cigarette.

"Live a little," he says, showing him how to light it, "A stick won't kill you."

Rosinante already knows what's going to kill him too, one way or another, so he presses the filter to his mouth and sucks in the smoke. He coughs hard, feels it tangle up in his lungs and he hears Smoker chuckle and slap his back like he's finally passed some kind of test.

"It's not as simple as it looks," he says, "Nothing ever is. Hurts, doesn't it?" 

Rosinante exhales, the pale wheezing strands of his breath drifting towards the sky, the coast, the North Blue.

"It does."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also with accompanying fanart from **cyan96**! Gah, I'm getting completely spoiled, please also go check out her gorgeous art blog [here!](http://ccyans.tumblr.com)


	6. Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaand, that's all folks! The final chapter for the final prompt of Corazon Week a day after Corazon Week's end (eheh). 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed reading about our beloved marine as much as I enjoyed writing about him! Please leave a comment if you're so inclined, because I would love to hear your thoughts!

* * *

_For almost thirteen years, he dreamed of his brother. He wishes he hadn't, but he had. Every night._

_Every night._

_Doffy is shadows and feathers and too many teeth. He is blood and fury under a wasteland sun._

_"You can't stop me," he whispers, "Oh, Rosi, silly, sweet brother mine. You can't stop me."_

_"I have to try."_

_In so many ways, they are the same. Hair and hands and height. The breadth of their shoulders, the square of their jaws. They really could have been twins, save for that one thing in Doffy that's missing. That one thing he's maybe just never possessed._

_The lack of it makes him unrecognizable._

_"Give up," his brother says, "You're nothing."_

_And Rosinante never had the correct retort to throw back in Doffy's face. Maybe like any other boy, he still found a bit of gospel in his big brother's words after all. Still found them_ right _in some inexplicable, terrible way._

* * *

It's true that at first, Rosinante had thought he was nothing. There was little proof to the contrary. What had he done to try and save his family? What had he managed to keep?

For a long time, he felt as if an infant wobbling alone on newborn legs. Doffy had always been holding his hand, telling him what they would do and how things would be. It was so easy to follow where he led, so comforting to think he'd be protected. 

Then Doffy was gone and Rosinante realized very suddenly that he'd have to decide what became of him for himself. He had to move on. He had to _learn._ He had to do the single thing his brother had never managed to and grow up.

It was hard. God, it was hard. Painful and confusing and wonderful and the single best thing that had ever happened to him. 

He use to think Doffy knew everything. But what could he have taught him about a kiss in the dark, a walk through a farmyard, a bird carved from ice or beer bottles clinking in a cavernous mess hall? What could he have told him about the meaning of family or the complexity of fairness? Or what ought to be marveled and how one ought to be loved?

Doffy survived on the fuel of his despair and the bitterness of his rage. There was not a drop of hope left in him. He couldn't have taught him how to live if he'd wanted to.

In this, Rosinante would pity him always.

* * *

_During the fourteenth year, he dreams of a black-haired boy._

_Pale and sour-faced, knees skinned and dirt smudged, with eyes as haunting as his brother's use to be._

_"Are you coming?" he asks, expectant, on the edge of grouchy, like he's been kept waiting a long, long time._

_Rosinante has not the first idea who he is, but the words are already on his lips, echoing back from some distant time. They feel right, all the way down to their core, and so he says, "Of course I'm coming."_

_The boy eyes him critically. After a beat of consideration, he raises his hands and Rosinante kneels down, pulls him close so they can hear the thrum of each other's hearts._

_"I thought you'd forgotten me," the boy mutters, tiny arms around his neck, voice naked against his ear._

_And even though this will only be the mist of a dream when he wakes, for now Rosinante laughs. For now he can say what he means._

_"Never," he whispers, "Never."_

* * *

_**fin.** _

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Law of Tangerines and Hearts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15469854) by [Pensola](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pensola/pseuds/Pensola)




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